


Selfish

by infernal



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, i can't make that tag lowercase and i'm very pleased at the enthusiasm of my predecessors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernal/pseuds/infernal
Summary: Alistair dislikes the pity that his fellow party members are treating him with; luckily, Zevran is inclined to treat him differently.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Comments: 5
Kudos: 94
Collections: Flash With Benefits





	Selfish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ziskandra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziskandra/gifts).



The headache's been building since they left Goldanna's. Admittedly, if Alistair had managed to unclench his jaw at any point since then he wouldn't be hurting so much now, but he tenses up again every time he catches one of the pitying looks that Surana and Leliana keep sending his way.

"They're pretty full tonight," Surana says, fighting his way through the crowd in the tavern and tossing a handful of keys down on the table where the rest of them are sitting. "We'll all have to share." He turns his gentle, pitying eyes on Alistair again, who finds himself grinding his teeth again, if he'd ever stopped. "Alistair, would you—" 

"Ah, I'm afraid our dear Alistair has already agreed to share with me," Zevran says, quickly grabbing the first key. "He very kindly decided to give Sten an evening away from my prattle, as it were." After all these long weeks of traveling together, Alistair still hasn't managed to decipher the nuances of Sten's singular expression, but he does appear to brighten up at the news.

"Oh, of course," Surana says, looking troubled. "Though, Alistair, considering everything—" 

"It's fine," Alistair says, standing so abruptly that his chair almost tips over; Zevran's quick reflexes set it right before it can hit the floor. "I just want some sleep, honestly. May I have the key?" he asks Zevran, who obliges, but follows closely behind when Alistair heads upstairs without another word. 

It shouldn't be possible for Alistair's day to get worse, but of course it is—he doesn't know why he's surprised to find that the room's single furnishing is a scratchy-looking straw mattress on the floor. "Home sweet home," Zevran says with a grimace, rummaging through his pack until he finds his traveling blanket, spreading it out over the straw pallet with a flourish. "There, you should find that a bit more restful."

"You can take the bed," Alistair says automatically, though he wants little more right now than to fall into the uncomfortable mattress and sleep for the next week or so. 

Zevran shakes his head. "I have business in the city. I ran into an interesting fellow in the marketplace who thought I might be interested in some work. I thought I might, ah. Freelance, as it were." 

"Don't you want backup?" Alistair asks. He's just started to doff his armor, but pauses, resigning himself to another night of combat. 

Zevran laughs, not unkindly. "It is very kind of you to offer, my friend, but this is the sort of job that your morals might find rather distasteful, and one that the sound of your armor might spoil." 

"I _can_ be stealthy, you know," Alistair says peevishly, but returns to the business of removing his vambraces.

Zevran gives him a long, appraising look, as though trying to imagine Alistair attempting to sneak around without the terrible clatter of his splintmail. "Another time," he says. "When you are not besieged by a headache, perhaps?" Alistair raises his eyebrows and Zevran laughs again. "You have a twitch near your eye when your head is bothering you. Right here," he says, raising one gloved hand to the side of Alistair's head and pressing his thumb lightly against the skin above Alistair's cheekbone.

"Huh," Alistair says, because it's all he can think of to say with Zevran this close, giving him another appraising look—though this one is different from the previous, and Alistair's face heats unaccountably. 

Zevran smiles and withdraws, fastening his cloak and pulling the hood up. "Rest well," he says, and slips out the door.

* * *

A sound stirs Alistair from his sleep near midnight—a strange hour at which to be waking after a full night's rest, and he's disoriented for a moment until he registers the door swinging open.

"Did I wake you? My apologies," Zevran says, locking the door behind him. He'd left his traveling pack behind, but has a satchel in his arms now. "I had hoped to be quieter, but I'm rather encumbered."

"So I see," Alistair says. "A successful night, I take it?" 

In the dim moonlight, Alistair can just see the flash of Zevran's smile. "Very much so. I suspect I will be finding us more suitable lodgings tomorrow evening." 

Alistair bristles, despite Surana being the one to unflinchingly hand fifteen sovereigns over to Goldanna, leaving just a handful of coppers in the party's coffer. "I'm more than capable of earning back that money myself, you know," he says. _Without stealing, or murdering,_ he thinks uncharitably, feeling the venom of the words even as he bites them back. 

Zevran sits down on the mattress beside him, unbothered by Alistair's sudden ire. "I know that you are," he says. "As am I, and I am more than happy to share my good fortune with my friends. Or, rather, Arl Howe's good fortune, I suppose." 

"Arl Howe?" 

"My new acquaintance had word that the Arl was transporting some valuable items to Highever," Zevran says. "Unfortunately, it seems that some dashing rogue intercepted the shipment before it could be moved." 

" _Very_ unfortunate," Alistair drawls. "Did he have anything interesting, then?" 

"Oh, yes, but I've fenced the interesting things already. Though I suspect you'll be more interested in what I _didn't_ fence." He nods towards the bag and Alistair reaches for it, finding a still-warm pie wrapped in paper, a wedge of smoked cheese, a crusty loaf of bread, and a few wine-skins. "I'm afraid the poor guards abandoned their meal when they heard the intruder, and forgot to return for it," Zevran says, and Alistair laughs.

They move from the bed to eat, neither particularly wanting to introduce breadcrumbs to the medley of discomforts the pallet already features. The meal rids Alistair of the very last of his headache, and he smiles at Zevran as they finish the last of the pie. "Thank you for this," he says. 

"It was nothing," Zevran says. "I had not eaten since morning, myself." 

"No, I mean—" _Thank you for not letting us ruin our own Maker-sent mission for my wretch of a sister_ feels a bit too on the nose. "Thank you for sharing the room with me, too, or else Surana and Leliana would have strong-armed me into talking about my feelings."

Zevran's nose wrinkles. "Perish the thought." He stretches, then, tossing aside the wrappings from the food and taking a long drink of wine. Alistair catches himself eyeing the curve of Zevran's throat as he drinks, and then notices that with his head tipped back like that, the clasp of his cloak is digging into his throat. Alistair's fingers itch to unfasten it; he busies his hands instead by taking a drink from his own wine-skin. 

Zevran set his wine aside and stood, finally unfastening his cloak and tossing it onto his backpack before kicking off his boots. "Did you sleep enough, or shall we share?" 

Despite his long rest, he's still exhausted from the events of the day and the past few weeks on the road. "I could sleep more," he admits. 

Zevran busies himself with removing his effects, carefully setting his sheathed longsword within reach and tucking his dagger beneath the layers of bedding. Alistair had managed to find his own blanket before sleep took him earlier; Zevran settles between the two blankets, making sure there's enough room for them both. 

Alistair feels clumsy again as he gets under the covers, drawing a chuckle from Zevran as he accidentally yanks the blanket too hard and pulls it off both of them. Flushing, he spreads it back over them and leans back, wishing he'd had the forethought to find something in his pack to use as a pillow.

He rolls over onto his side, hoping to find a more comfortable position, and sees Zevran facing him, a look of contemplation on his face. "I didn't even think to ask if your headache had gone," he says. "It has, though, has it not? You no longer have that ugly, pinched look."

Alistair makes an affronted sound, but there's no heat in it, not when Zevran's hand has come up to cradle the side of his head again. "I'm feeling much better," he says. His voice comes out lower than he expected it to. 

"Too bad," Zevran says. He curls his fingers in, lets his nails scrape against Alistair's scalp. "If the sleep and the food didn't work, I had a few interesting ideas for what to try next." 

"Oh," Alistair says, floundering for a moment. "I, uh. Get headaches a lot, you know. It might be nice to know a few more remedies." 

"I would be happy to oblige," Zevran says, pitching forward until their mouths meet. 

Zevran doesn't kiss like any of the precious few people Alistair's kissed before; there's nothing coy about it, nothing chaste or even particularly curious. He kisses him with intent, like he's already set himself on a course he's planned to see out.

Zevran pushes at Alistair's shoulder; he lets himself be manhandled back against the mattress, Zevran swinging a leg over him to straddle him, but when he leans back down for another kiss Alistair presses a hand to his chest to still him. "Wait," he says; if his voice sounded hoarse before it sounds downright desperate now, and he blushes to hear it. Zevran waits patiently, and perhaps a bit warily. "Is this a pity thing? Because—"

"You're very self-centered, aren't you?" Zevran says, rolling his eyes; the accusation from _Zevran_ of all people is enough to silence Alistair altogether. "I have been _perfectly_ selfish all evening, thank you very much, and I'd thank you not to make everything about _you_. I took the job because I wanted money, and I stole the food because I was hungry. And now I find myself lying beside my very handsome friend, who I'm very much hoping will nobly take it upon himself to distract me from this terrible mattress we find ourselves upon."

"It's that simple?" Alistair asks, knowing that it isn't but willing to play along.

"Of course," Zevran says, ducking his head down to bite at Alistair's earlobe. "I'm _very_ selfish, you see. I'm only too happy to seek whatever enjoyments I like, and one of those enjoyments happens to be sharing such pleasures." 

Zevran's voice is low in his ear, and Alistair shivers. "Very generous of you," he says.

"It isn't. Weren't you listening, Alistair? I'm being _selfish_ ," he says reprovingly, and Alistair is still laughing when their lips meet again.

It's different like this, the trace of laughter lingering; it feels very much like kissing a friend. Which he is, he realizes, and that thought might worry Alistair if it were anyone else in their party, but Zevran is unlikely to get weird about this. He won't expect anything from Alistair, or give him grief for his inexperience—well, perhaps a _little_ , but not in front of the rest of the party. Probably. 

"You're still thinking too much," Zevran says. Alistair deflects by feigning a suspicious look.

"Just wondering if this is all part of your wicked plot to assassinate me," he says, and Zevran grins. 

"Oh yes," he says, "this _is_ my favorite method of assassination." 

"And how are you killing me," Alistair asks. He lets his hips roll up, experimentally, and the little groan Zevran lets out sends a thrill through him. "With kindness?"

"If I must," he sighs. "But I'd much rather choke you with my cock." Alistair doesn't know _what_ sound he makes at that, but it has Zevran chuckling as he presses a kiss against Alistair's throat. "That sounds agreeable, then?" It does, it very much does, but the very idea has Alistair's mouth dry with want, which seems counterintuitive to the process. "Hm, but my contract has no urgent time limit, after all. Perhaps you could give me a reason to keep you around a little longer."

"I thought that's what I've _been_ doing," Alistair says, rolling his hips again, drawing that lovely little noise out of Zevran again. 

"I knew you would be fun to do this with," Zevran says, leaning back so he can hurriedly pull his shirt over his head. Alistair would very much like to do the same, but it's tricky with Zevran on top of him like this; he finally manages to remove it with Zevran's assistance and tosses it carelessly somewhere across the room. 

"Then you've, er. Thought about this before?" Not that Alistair should be surprised—Zevran does delight in making it clear to anyone he's talking about that, at basically any point, he's thinking about _this_ with them on some level—but it's somehow strange to give that serious thought, even as evidence of Zevran's seriousness is right here, plain as day.

"As I said, I like to take pleasure where I can, with those I find agreeable. And you are, in fact, considerably agreeable." 

"Agreed," Alistair says, smiling when it makes Zevran laugh again. 

Feeling bold, he grips Zevran by the hips and flips them over, settling on top of him. Zevran's mouth opens in surprise, a small huff of air escaping; the corners of Alistair's mouth turn down. "Should I not have done that?" he asks hesitantly.

"I thought it might take considerably more work to convince you to manhandle me," Zevran says approvingly. "I don't suppose you'd do it again?" 

"Gladly," Alistair says, and then remembers their location. "Er. When we're somewhere with stronger walls? Or a stronger floor." The one they're lying on right now creaks alarmingly when either of them moves. It's still not especially late, thankfully, or Alistair would be worried that anyone downstairs could hear them; as it is, there's still music, laughter and the occasional shout floating up from below. 

"Mm," Zevran says, a note of disappointment in his voice. "While normally I'd say I'd be quite happy for you to fuck me through the floor, perhaps it's best if that stays a metaphor." 

Alistair's brain shorts out at that, and when it comes back online he realizes that he's been spending all this time talking and precious little of it _doing_. "Can I—" he asks, his fingers trailing along the waist of Zevran's trousers. At his nod, Alistair tugs at the drawstring, Zevran lifting his hips to help slide the fabric down his legs. 

It's not that he hadn't known Zevran was hard—that had been beautifully, achingly obvious this whole time. But there's a difference between feeling and seeing, and where Alistair's mouth was dry before, it waters now. Zevran must mistake his gaze for apprehension, because he gives a wry smile and starts to say something along the lines of "If you don't want to—" 

It's Alistair's turn to roll his eyes, and he cuts off whatever appeasement Zevran's about to offer by sliding down and taking his cock in his mouth. It's effective, Zevran's words trailing off and then turning into a pleased little sound of surprise as Alistair gives an experimental suck. 

His movements are decidedly unpracticed, but Zevran is responsive, little sounds of approval falling from his lips like music whenever Alistair does something he likes. And Zevran likes a _lot_ ; the accidental scrape of Alistair's teeth has his hips twitching forward, and when Alistair reaches up to pin him down with an arm across his waist to keep him still, Zevran's head falls back against the mattress, a muttered _"Brasca,"_ falling from his tongue. 

Alistair finds a rhythm eventually, keeps Zevran pinned but lets him tangle his fingers in his hair; it's easy to zone out like that, his only focus letting Zevran find his pleasure. He doesn't notice Zevran saying his name until one of the tugs to his hair comes more sharply than the others. " _Alistair_ ," Zevran is saying, managing to sound totally wrecked and a little cross at the same time. "If you don't want me to spend in your mouth, you'd better pull back," he says. If Alistair's mouth weren't otherwise occupied, he might find something witty to say, but as it is, he just gives Zevran a pointed look and then closes his eyes again, taking Zevran in as deep as he can. 

Alistair hears a muffled curse and then Zevran is coming; the sensation is strange, the taste is strange, but it's still _good_ , feeling Zevran twitch inside him, the warmth that floods his mouth. He tries to swallow and manages it, mostly, but a thin trickle escapes; he's barely pulled off when Zevran tackles him to the bed and licks the trail from the corner of his mouth, which has Alistair keening. 

"I knew you'd be fun," Zevran says, "but I didn't know you'd be such a _menace_." He sounds utterly delighted about it, and Alistair grins, oddly proud. "Here, here, let me—" and then he's giving Alistair a taste of his own medicine, taking him in deep. 

Alistair can't keep his hips from rolling up in that initial moment, but Zevran doesn' try to pin him down like Alistair did; he just hums approvingly and does something interesting with his throat that has Alistair making a sound so loud he wouldn't be surprised if they _could_ hear him downstairs. "Zev, Zevran, I'm not going to last if you keep it up," he says, and this must be _meant_ to be a taste of his own medicine, because Zevran gives him the same look he gave him, letting his eyes flutter shut before relaxing his throat again. 

Alistair swears and his hips jerk again, the shortest motions he can manage to keep from going too deep, twice, three times, and then he's coming down Zevran's throat. Zevran swallows with greater ease than Alistair did, not letting a single drop spill out, and then pulls off, collapsing breathlessly next to Alistair. 

Alistair's not really sure what the protocol is now—he's not sure Zevran's the type to snuggle after, though given the size of the mattress there's not really much of an alternate choice—but he can't help but reach out to trail his fingers down Zevran's throat. "You're all right?" he asks.

"I'm _very_ well, thank you," he says. His voice is rough, and that little thrill goes through Alistair again. With the stillness, he can feel how sweaty he is against the chill of the room, and he pulls the blanket up over them; he hesitates for a moment and then edges closer. Zevran might not be a cuddler, as Alistair suspected, but Ferelden winters are no laughing matter, and he seems happy enough to reposition them until he's tucked in against Alistair's chest.

* * *

The morning is far less awkward than Alistair would have thought. They don't talk about what happened, of course, but they don't ignore it, either; Zevran stretches long and leisurely before beginning his hunt for all of his discarded items of clothing, and when he catches Alistair looking, he just shoots him a wink. 

It doesn't happen again, though, despite the drastically improved accommodations that the party is only too happy to take Zevran up on—not right away, anyway. Alistair spends the night in unreasonably luxurious lodgings, alone; that's that, he supposes, and it's fine. After all, it's not like he had aspirations of marriage to a man who planned to kill him just months ago. 

Their short time in Denerim comes to a close as their search for Brother Genitivi leads to some kind of cult in the Frostbacks, and the next night they're on their way to the far side of the country. Zevran doesn't come to Alistair's tent, and Alistair doesn't go to Zevran's. Nothing changes, though Alistair's usual "clearly the untrustworthy assassin is still out to get us" bit does get a little more inventive with potential methods of murder, which never fails to make Zevran laugh and give him a sly, knowing look when no one's looking.

The next village they happen across has a tavern with rooms to let, though hardly any better than the one back in Denerim. Zevran finagles it so he and Alistair are sharing again, and as they all head upstairs, Alistair notices that they have the middle room, with Sten and Surana on their left and Morrigan and Leliana on their right. 

The walls are so thin that he can hear the low rumble of Sten's voice from next door, and Alistair sighs; not much chance of a repeat, not here. And then he feels himself pushed against the door as it closes, Zevran smiling wickedly at him. "You did tell me you could be stealthy," he says, and that thrill that Alistair is quickly coming to associate with Zevran sparks through him, rekindling with such ease that it's like it hasn't left at all. "Shall we put it to the test?"


End file.
